


Two Weeks

by neichan



Category: NCIS, Without a Trace
Genre: Challenge Response
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-01-06
Updated: 2006-01-06
Packaged: 2019-02-05 16:37:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12798303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neichan/pseuds/neichan
Summary: A second chance...one Martin doesn't expect to ever have again, comes to him out of the distant past, and turns him upside down.....





	Two Weeks

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Haven, the archivist: This story was originally archived at [Fandom Haven Story Archive (FHSA)](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Fandom_Haven_Story_Archive), was scheduled to shut down at the end of 2016. To preserve the archive, I began working with the OTW to transfer the stories to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in November 2017. If you are this creator and the work hasn't transferred to your AO3 account, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Fandom Haven Story Archive collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/fhsa/profile).

  
Author's notes: Fandom: X-over, NCIS/WAT  
Pairing: Tony DiNozzo/Martin Fitzgerald  


* * *

Nice to know that he could end up like this, stuck in a rainstorm, nearly a monsoon if he was honest, nervous, shaking, just waiting to see if the man out of his past would actually show. Martin shook the fog of memory, of jumbled dreams out of his head when someone tapped on the window of his car.

 

He looked up, right into the faintly lined, handsome face of the man he'd wondered over for more than a decade, right into the brilliant blaze of blue set off by the two dozen red roses he held. The shock of that gesture, the roses, rendered Martin mute, gagged by the utter surprise of the meeting, of the flowers, and mostly...of the look in the other man's eyes.

 

It took a second tap on the window to remind him that while he was inside and dry, Tony was not...he was outside, in the deluge of water pounding in noisy enthusiasm on the car's roof. He leaned over and unlatched the door, Tony grabbed it, thrust the flowers in at Martin, and launched himself into the car, looking like nothing more than a half-drowned cat.

 

They eyed each other, both men silent, unsure of how to begin, Martin fingering the fragrant roses unsure how to begin the conversation they needed to have without blundering into the quagmire of old history. Tony looked at him, eyes so startlingly, preternaturally blue, so penetrating that Martin found it impossible to breathe for so long that his chest began to ache, until he was forced to cough, harsh and short, in order to recall how to breathe again.

 

That was it, the trigger, and Tony, laughing reached out to cup the side of Martin's face with one palm, his touch so tender, so benign Martin almost stopped breathing again, his other hand taking back the roses, dropping them into the back seat. Tears filled Martin's eyes as he sat helpless, gazing back at the one man who could do this to him, who could kick his ass and get away with it.

 

Tony watched the tears brimming, watched and said nothing, as they slid, leaving salty tracks down the other man's face; as they ran along the edge of his own hand, and his face remained serious, intense, contemplative. Martin, trapped in the car, his own car becoming his prison, was not able to stop the feeling of desperation building inside of him, nor could he neglect the fact that he was letting this happen, all of it, he had surrendered to the tall, brown haired man who sat next to him in the Volvo's passenger seat, the instant he'd booked his flight to come here.

 

And from there it was hardly a leap to feel himself swaying, leaning forward when Tony's big hands guided him across the few inches that separated them from each other. Ghod, if his father could see him now...or his mother, or their country club friends...they would laugh harder at him, his foolishness, his stupidity, than they had ever laughed at any stand up comedian.

 

He was supposed to be an FBI agent, experienced, hard, competent, able to shadow box with the best, most adroit criminals on Earth, win every time, and yet, he was sitting here, because Tony had called him, reminded him of what they'd once had, years and years ago. Reminded him of an incredible, dreamlike two weeks they'd shared before Martin ran away. Ran back to the mundane life he'd had, his family, his friends, wealth, and unhappiness, just so no one would ever find out just what he'd done for two weeks in June, at the bidding of the man sitting here, now.

 

Martin realized he was weeping in his car, in a rainstorm in downtown Boston, and worse, he wasn't protesting as he heard Tony's zipper slide down, and felt the other man guide his head down. He let himself fall forward, until his cheek rested on the wetness of the wool trousers, his nose buried in the open fly, inhaling the scent of man, and wool, and musk submerging him into memory; Tony smelled exactly as he did in the painful, memory-dreams Martin still had.

 

Martin had spent two weeks as this man's sexual plaything, his sidekick when they were both rich, bored and 19, both wild, both looking for something more daring, more challenging, more rebellious than the rich-man's-sons-lives they were leading. They wanted to be seen not as the naive, boring, squares they were, but as hip, with it, and they'd done it...for two weeks that had made Martin question everything about himself and his life, even to this day.

 

For two weeks Martin Fitzgerald had lived a life as nude, masked, and collared slave, sleeping across the foot of Tony DiNozzo's bed, his pet, to be loaned out at his owner's whim, having no say at all. Martin had nothing at that time, nothing, no clothing, no wallet, no money, no ID, no privacy, no power...the one gift Tony granted him, was everyone who fucked him, everyone who he sucked, wore a condom.

 

That was all, if Tony snapped his fingers just so, it was Martin's job to roll onto his belly and lift his hips, closing his eyes, he didn't even have the right to see who was taking him as he lay over the end of Tony's mattress. Tony would lay there, their heads together, hands clasped with him, fingers entwined, as Martin whimpered, cried out, his body shaking with the force of the thrusts into his body, and took what ever he was given, however it was given to him.

 

And now Tony was back, here, his hand on the side of Martin's face as Martin lay with his head in Tony's lap, Tony's jacket over his head, hiding the storm-drenched, wind-torn world from him, blocking out the light, the muted sounds, everything that wasn't Tony.

 

Nothing was like this, nothing could make Martin feel this much, this powerfully, this intensely, not murder, not torture, not global warfare, not catching a terrorist, a man guilty of treason...nothing...nothing rivaled the streaks of frantic emotions that Tony filled him with. Despair, need, belonging, crazy, wild, burning desire so powerful, so tearing, that he would do anything for it, to feel it again, and to know why it had all ended, why, when he had needed it so badly, had he walked away.

 

The feel of fingers, blunt tipped, strong, calloused fingers, weaving through his hair, indulgent, loving, and possessive, it was everything and it took him back, instantaneously to that first day. That party, where they'd met, casual girls friends in tow, where Martin had ended up, in less than half an hour, alone an a locked room, on his knees, a virtual stranger's cock down his throat, Tony's long, hard, perfect cock.

 

Martin let out a short, pain-filled cry, and Tony's fingers stroked his cheek, his brow, his mouth, less than an inch away from the hard cock Martin remembered, the altar at which he'd worshiped. The pound of flesh that that been taken from him, he thought forever, when he'd betrayed Tony and left him without a word of explanation, or permission.

 

The call he'd received ten hours ago had felt like a punch into his solar plexus, deep and disabling. He'd listened to the beloved voice, the words and their meaning impossible to absorb at first, he'd had to swing away from the window to his office, hide his face and the shock carved on it from anyone, everyone.

 

Just that voice proved enough to push him to urgent arousal, his erection stiff, aching in his suit pants, tenting the fabric for anyone to see if he stood, if Tony commanded him to show the world.

 

Tony had talked on and gradually, Martin had understood what he was being offered, what the other man wanted him to do...nothing much, just the answer to his every fantasy...a contract to sign, and Martin would be his, promised to Tony, forever.

 

It had been the greatest challenge of his life to place a coherent call to the airlines, make it, in stumbling haste, onto the plane, to Boston, rent a car, and drive to the address, this street, where Tony said he would meet him. The encounter was so necessary to Martin, he was not able to say no, to propose an alternative, or to do more than leave Jack Malone a cryptic note, (he was leaving to take care of personal business, he would call as soon as he could), before he left the office on his way to Tony.

 

Now they were together,Tony's hands on him, treating him like a cherished icon, his body a temple, a shrine, Tony's to own and to worship to use, however he saw fit. As it had been the night he chained Martin to a ring, on his hands and knees in the middle of a candle lit patio, and stroked him to near orgasm over and over, in front of a giggling crowd of sorority girls, never once letting Martin cum. And Martin had lain there, not knowing how beautiful he was, how the vision of his candlelit body would stay, embedded in the minds of those dozen witnesses, how that one vision would haunt Tony for more than a decade.

 

He'd worn the red stripes from Tony's gentle whip across the back of his thighs that night, he'd begged, threatened, called everyone he saw foul names as he endured the erotic torture...but Tony had not let him find release, and Martin was already so far under his spell, he couldn't achieve it on his own, without Tony's permission.

 

That was the first hurdle, Martin's stubbornness. Tony took no chances, let him have no doubt as to who was in charge. And Martin, his body, had not forgotten it. Tony still owned him, wanted him, though Martin had done the unforgivable, walking out on his true Master.

 

He hadn't had any choice, he'd told himself, in less than a month he'd found himself sinking into the hold and power of the young man, only his own age, who he'd not known existed half a moth before. He couldn't deal with it, the intensity of their bond, the binding relationship they had been on the way to forming, Martin had feared he would lose himself entirely.

 

He looked up, daring to try and see what this meeting was doing to Tony, to assess the possibility this odd, danger fraught friendship was about to resume...and he saw the light he remembered in Tony's eyes, the heat, the threat, the need, the power...it was just what Martin wanted to see.


End file.
